


Tonight We Are Victorious

by trespresh



Series: I'm Half-Doomed, You're Semi-Sweet [9]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poor Baby Barry, Secret Relationship, Self-Hatred, The Rogues - Freeform, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5393324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trespresh/pseuds/trespresh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hartley speaks up too, doing a poor job of hiding the excitement in his voice, “The Flash’ll be out for at least a day after what you did to him. Even <i>with</i> that super-healing.”</p>
<p>The worst part is, the Rogues think they’re cheering Len up.</p>
<p>(In which the Rogues face the Flash and win, and Len hates himself for hurting Barry.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight We Are Victorious

**Author's Note:**

> MissSugarPlum is a total queen, a huge thank you to her for helping me out and giving me input on this.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters belong to the DC Universe. Title belongs to Panic!.
> 
> *hides*

“Oh man, did you see his _face_?”

The small crowd at Saints and Sinners is lively tonight, rowdy with the celebration of a job well done. James and Axel both lean excitedly across their table toward Hartley, who reclines easily in his chair, trying too hard to look unbothered and smug as he pops another bottle of champagne. Mark and Shawna lean against the bar, a little too close to be casual; Mark has a beer in hand and a self-satisfied grin on his face, and Shawna looks tiredly pleased.

Len, for his part, just feels sick.

He’s got Mick on one side of him and Lisa on the other, and the way they gravitate around him—too close and quiet like they’re worried he might snap or worse—only puts him more on edge.

“I totally thought he had us when he had Shawna cornered,” Mark continues, nudging Shawna with his shoulder, and she smiles.

“Please,” she snorts. “Not even the Flash can stop me from taking something this pretty.” She outstretches her hand to admire the diamond ring on her middle finger—nearly 20 karats and only one of the expensive rocks they got away with tonight.

Len briefly considers snapping her finger off. “You do realize how moronic it is to wear a multimillion dollar ring after we’ve just _stolen it_ , I’m sure,” he hisses, low and venomous in a way that has Lisa laying a hand on his forearm and Shawna looking like she’s been slapped. All eyes are on Len, the atmosphere abruptly icy and subdued.

“What’s your problem?” She sulks, but twists the ring off her finger and slips it into her pocket anyway.

“Chill, Snart,” Mark says. “We just pulled off a great job. Resale on all those diamonds is over a million apiece.”

Len bristles, “I know what the resale is, Mardon. _I_ told you that.”

Mark shrugs, unfazed by Len’s building anger. “So you know we’re rich. Relax, have a beer.”

Lisa’s hand tightens on his arm because she _knows_ him, knows he might walk across the room and strangle Mark right now. Mick claps him on the back, his hand staying on Len’s shoulder. Part of Len appreciates what they’re trying to do, but another part of him really needs to hit something.

“And if that’s not enough,” Hartley speaks up, doing a poor job of hiding the excitement in his voice, “the Flash’ll be out for at least a day after what you did to him. Even _with_ that super-healing.”

“His face when you froze him to the floor so Mark could drop hail on him—” Axel cackles.

“—Icing on the cake,” James finishes, and there’s a collective chuckle amongst the five of the Rogues, the mood lifting to its previously celebratory level.

The worst part is, they think they’re cheering Len up.

He’s aware of Lisa’s concerned gaze on him, can see her out of the corner of his eye, but he forces a small smile and grinds out, “Do whatever it takes, right?”

The rest of the Rogues cheer to that, and Len kind of wants to throw up. He pushes back from the table and heads for the exit without a word.

The air outside is crisp on his cheeks and he finally feels like he can breathe. He pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen too bright in the darkness of the night, and shoots off a text before he can think about it too much.

_(8:13 p.m.) I don’t suppose I can expect you to come over tonight?_

He can hear the tap of Lisa’s heels as she approaches, stepping up next to him.

“I told them you’re pissed about not getting that last sapphire necklace,” she says, and he sighs.

They fall into one of those loaded silences where he knows Lisa wants to say something, but like always, she waits for him to make the first move. He scrubs a hand over his face, anger and frustration and a little bit of shame swirling in his stomach.

“This isn’t working,” he admits to the ground. He can feel her eyes heavy on him but he doesn’t look up.

“Lenny—”

He can’t stand the sadness in the way she says his name, the pity in her tone—

“I _left_ him there, Lise,” he spits. The disgust with himself, the guilt, settles thickly in the back of his throat. “I froze him to the ground and let Mardon…” he trails off, picturing the betrayal on Barry’s face and the awful, blistering frostbite covering his cheeks from the Cold Gun, hearing his screams of pain while Mardon dropped enough heavy shards of ice on him to kill a normal man, until Barry blacked out—

Len lets out the shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “And I just left him there, unconscious,” he finishes quietly. “He’ll have every reason to hate me.”

Lisa’s voice is gentle when she says, “Have you seen the way that boy looks at you, Lenny? I don’t think he could ever hate you.”

Len digests that for a moment but instead of bringing him relief, her words drop another swell of guilt in his chest. “That’s the point, though. We’ve had a good thing going between us, and now this.” _I’ve ruined it_ , he doesn’t say, doesn’t have to because Lisa sighs like she knows what he’s thinking.

“You’re a criminal, Lenny, and he’s the Flash. He knew that going into this thing of yours.”

Len tilts his head back to stare up at the dark sky. Instead of seeing the stars that twinkle back at him, he only sees the hurt in Barry’s eyes that replays over and over in his head. “And it’s not working.”

“Which part?”

When he looks over at her, her eyes are focused, filled with understanding and that sort of kindness she only reserves for him. He’s reminded for the millionth time that he doesn’t deserve her.

“What do you mean?”

She smiles slightly, a sad kind of quirk to her lips. “This thing between you two, or your line of work? Which part isn’t working?”

His sigh freezes on the cold air, a little puff of white that he watches evaporate into the air when he looks back up at the sky.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

+

He doesn’t get a response from Barry all night. He knows he doesn’t actually deserve to hear from Barry and he feels a little pathetic for waiting for his phone to light up, but that doesn’t stop him from texting a few more times anyway.

_(10:07 p.m.) At least tell me you’re alright._

_(11:34 p.m.) Barry, come on. Talk to me. I can’t explain how shitty I feel about this._

His bed feels too big, too cold, without Barry in it; he wonders how long it’s been since he’s actually slept alone, without Barry stretched out and snoring softly next to him. He’d be disgusted with his own little pity party if he weren’t so unsettled by the silence from Barry.

It’s a cold, last-ditch effort when he squints at the phone screen and types out a final attempt for Barry’s attention, before rolling over to fall asleep.

(1:48 a.m.) _A friendly reminder that the Flash once dislocated my shoulder during one of our little spats._

+

He wakes up to the sound of bacon sizzling from the kitchen.

His heart leaps a little and he hastily pulls on a pair of sweatpants before making his way to the kitchen.

Barry’s back is to him while he stands over the stove; he’s wearing a faded t-shirt and an old pair of Len’s sweatpants that he’d borrowed a few months ago and never bothered to return. He stiffens like he knows Len is standing there but he doesn’t turn around. His shoulders are slumped a little, hunched in on himself in a way that suggests he’s in pain but trying to hide it. And his arms—

The fact that there are yellowish-purple marks still littering his arms only demonstrate how badly he was bruised by Mardon’s hail. That sick feeling swirls in Len’s stomach again. He hates himself for doing this to Barry.

“Quit it,” Barry says to the stove, and Len stares at his back.

He clears his throat but his voice still comes out shaky. “What?”

“Quit torturing yourself,” Barry elaborates, and there’s a tiny edge of teasing to his voice that only makes Len’s self-loathing burn stronger. He still doesn’t turn around, and Len can see him flipping bacon from Len’s freezer in the frying pan. “I’m fine.”

Len takes a careful step forward, and when he sets his hands gingerly on Barry’s waist, Barry hisses in pain. Len spins him, eyes on Barry’s stomach when he lifts the t-shirt, and sees the bruises across Barry’s skin, darker than the ones on his arms. It’s a testament to the damage Len and Mardon did that he hasn’t completely healed yet.

“Len—”

He finally looks up at Barry’s face and feels dizzy. It must read on Len’s face because even despite the faded black frostbite that spreads over Barry’s cheeks, cutting off in soft curves under his eyes and over his chin where the Flash mask protected him, Barry’s eyes only look at him with careful concern like _he’s_ the one who should be sorry. Len can’t stop staring at how purple and cracked Barry’s lips are.

“You should’ve seen me earlier this morning,” he tries to joke, but when Len’s horrified expression deepens, his voice softens. “I’m not mad at you, so you can stop being mad at yourself.”

“You should hate me,” Len breathes.

Barry sighs and turns back to the stove. “Well, I don’t. You’re right, I did dislocate your shoulder.” He throws a wry smile over his shoulder, frostbitten lips twisting up, and Len’s not sure how he can be so nonchalant right now. “Consider us even.”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Len says, shaking his head. “This is nowhere _near_ ‘even’.”

Barry’s shoulder lifts in a half-shrug, and he flips a strip of bacon.

“Tell me what happened. After we—just. After,” Len says. Barry sighs and is quiet for a minute, but Len’s patient until Barry gives in.

“Caitlin and Cisco found me after I… stopped responding over the com. I didn’t see your texts until I woke up in S.T.A.R. Labs around 3 this morning. The internal damage had mostly healed by then,” he mumbles like he thinks Len won’t hear if he speaks quickly or quietly enough.

_Internal damage—_

Len heaves a breath in and Barry turns at the sound of it. “Len, seriously. Don’t. I’m fine.”

Len shakes his head. “You’re not fine.”

“I’ll heal,” Barry shrugs.

Len can’t help but glare at him; why isn’t he upset with Len? He should be furious, he should be saying awful things, should throw something or yell, or punch Len _at least_. “I can’t believe I did this to you.”

A tiny humorless smile flits onto Barry’s face, and Len notices that the frostbite is already a little more faded, the bruises on his arms a little less noticeable than a few minutes ago. “You didn’t,” Barry says. “Mardon did.”

“Barry.”

Barry throws his hands up in exasperation, and for some reason, Len feels a little better to see something other than that understanding warmth on Barry’s features. His voice is loud and frustrated when he fires back, “This is what we _do_ , Len! We go after each other and we fight. We hurt each other. It’s in the job description.”

Len’s shaking his head before Barry even finishes. “Not anymore, it’s not.”

Barry rolls his eyes. “You’re not going to give up being a criminal,” he says in a sure voice, firm and final like he’s not going to allow Len to argue. “You’re too good at it.”

And, well. He has a point. But that doesn’t fix this.

“I’m not going to let any of them hurt you like this again. Not even me,” he says heatedly, feeling like he could put Mardon through a wall as he watches Barry’s cheeks fade from a frostbitten black to a sickly gray, the cracks in his lips slowly healing over and fading to their normal, pretty pink. “ _Especially_ not me.”

Barry stares tiredly at him for a moment before nodding once and saying in a soft voice, “Okay.” And his small smile feels like forgiveness even though Barry hadn’t been angry. He turns back to the stove and groans. “Bacon’s burned.”

Len can’t help the tiny laugh that bubbles past his lips. “You really should not be making me breakfast.”

“I wasn’t,” Barry pouts. “This was for me. I deserve to eat some of your food.”

Len’s laugh is louder this time, and it’s with tentative steps that Len moves toward him, presses his chest to Barry’s back and sets his hand, light as a feather, across Barry’s stomach. He sighs, “I’m sorry,” into Barry’s shoulder blade, and Barry just melts back against him and sighs like, somehow, he still feels safe in Len’s arms.


End file.
